It was that fleeting hour of day when the moon and sun are high and bright at the same time. Like many things in my life, these summer nights wouldn't last much longer. I sat quietly on a porch swing, gently pendulating back and forth. Across the street the Thompson clan spewed out of their front door, piling into their suburban - no doubt to head out for their weekly family dinner at Rudy's. Thank God I'm not working tonight, I thought as I watched their car careen down the street, slowing to a roll through the stop sign at the end of Blake Street. Mr. Thompson had no regard for the law, and hadn't the need to - what with his brother being the mayor and all.
"So, I think I've got it just right," James said, smiling as he wafted out onto the porch presenting me with one of the old-fashioned's he'd meticulously concocted inside. I nodded, taking the glass as I inched left on the swing. He knelt slightly, letting the swing grab him and usher him backwards.
"So get this, that S.O.B. Thompson marched over here into MY driveway yesterday and starts lecturing me about working on my car in front of my own house. Said that it's an eyesore for the community AND some garbage about how my oil spilling slightly has an ecological affect, or some crap like that - that I need to abide by the terms in our HOA agreement. I don't remember ever signing something that said I couldn't work on my damn car, at my own house - and I hardly think he cares about the environment. . . "
I nodded as James plodded on, letting my mind wonder as I gazed on the multi-gradient stain adorning James's driveway - the clear setting of yet another altercation with his entitled, yet bewitchingly articulate neighbor. James was no wordsmith - but equally brilliant when it came to mechanics. He stood in stark opposition to the Thompson brothers. They were a well-educated, unprincipled pair - who wielded their authority over the community arrogantly. Their focus was to overfund their pocketbooks, while seeming to improve the neighborhood. Of course, the most irritating thing about them was the demeaning stature they took on. It occurred to me, listening to James' rant - that perhaps the further he got into his diatribe - the worse it would be for me to just come out with it. But I couldn't find the words.
"Honey, you haven't even tried your drink?" In a haze, I lifted my glass to see three melted cubes watering down what was likely the perfect drink, condensation dripping down my wrist.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
I sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled the answer, peaking out the corner of my eye to see his face. Such a coward, I couldn't even look at him.
A long minute passed with him clenching his empty glass- tilting it on it's edge and pursing his lips before he growled the question, "So, whose is it?"
This is interesting